


Homeward Bound

by perkynurples



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Afterlife, M/M, Meddling Valar, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 05:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11246994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: His life slips away from him on an elven boat carrying him overseas, and there is one last journey Bilbo Baggins must take if he truly means to arrive home.





	Homeward Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [61Below](https://archiveofourown.org/users/61Below/gifts).



The first, and inevitably last, thing he sees, is white, and as he passes, he also recalls, _this is not how this should go, now is it?_ No, whenever his kind speaks of... _something,_ anything, after death, they envision darkness, a room with cold walls, like their smial slowly caving in on them, the earth reclaiming the spaces that once belonged to it.

Then, at sunset on the first day after a death, the entire family gathers, dozens of cousins and the cousins of cousins, and they dance and sing, and indeed, eat, and flowers are planted where men or elves might expect a gravestone, and then, life moves on.

But here, there are no flowers, no fields of grass to cushion his passing, nothing but the endless sea and the carved wood of the ships bearing them across, and the white is everywhere, and somehow, he knows, at some point - he closes his eyes, and suddenly, it’s too difficult to open them again, takes much longer, and when he finally succeeds, there is a lightness to his bones that he does not remember feeling for decades.

_There you are._

_Hello?,_ he attempts to say, but his voice makes no sound - _someone_ hears him, though, he can sense as much.

He sits up, and he is no longer on the ship, his aching, fading body cushioned by pillows and soft embroidered elven blankets, his nephew’s hand soft in his own - no, this is very different, and very difficult to even name.

_Where am I?_

_Where do you want to be?_

He thinks he can see the vague outline of a figure far up ahead, nothing more than a shadow in fog, and he attempts to get to his feet - succeeds surprisingly fast, and all signs of age seem to disappear one by one, each step he takes. He can walk without a cane again, hold his head up high again, and when he looks at his hands, they are no longer covered with a web of wrinkles and veins.

His youth has returned to him, even if only for the duration of this dream.

“Who are you, if I may ask?” he calls, voice only quivering the slightest amount - at least there _is_ a voice, now.

 _You know me,_ another, less tangible, voice whispers, like the soft murmur of wind. _Petal child._

“I’m afraid I don’t,” he admits, “I’m a little bit confused. I did... die on that ship, did I not?”

 _Yes,_ the voice confirms simply.

“Oh,” he stops in his tracks, puts his hands on his hips, “well then. Is this it?”

Its laughter is the laughter of a thousand overlapping voices, like the happy rushing of a brook down a meadow, and at last, he sees. Everything grows out of thin air, the grass under his feet, the flowers in it, specks of bright colors, rolling hills heave out of nothing to remind him of home. He feels fresh air that smells of summer, the faintest hint of smoke, apples being baked on a fire, and he knows that if he were to turn the right corner, he would see home again.

 _This may be it,_ the voice suggests, _if you so desire._

He inhales, deep and hungry, feels the blades of grass tickling his toes, gazes at the sky, _about time for supper, it would seem..._

_You can go wherever you please, now._

On the horizon, the sky is no more, periwinkle blue slowly fading into white, then into a vague dark shade, like someone had run out of color, and yet, he sees them still, tall peaks waiting on him.

“I want to see the mountains again,” he decides, “I made a promise.”

 

That much, he remembers - the biting chill of winter, his breath forming clouds, the occasional deep, ominous crackle of layers and layers of ice, the very same many-splendored shade of shifting blues as Thorin's eyes. The white, and the crimson seeping into it.

Thorin had spoken softly, like they were simply having a pleasant conversation, like they weren't exchanging last minute, half worded confessions, desperately running out of time, and Bilbo felt tiny, and useless, and so very angry, at himself, at the very set of circumstances that had led him to that very point in time, that had made it so that he was now to be left alone, without a clue in the world of where things might have led, all the other possible outcomes Thorin and him could have experienced.

He spent his life after that pushing those feelings back, committing them to words to blunt their edges, but now, when it all lay before his eyes like yet another book for him to leaf through, they return to him clearer than ever, and his decision is swift.

 _You cannot follow where he has gone_ , the voice whispers, and the sudden urge to stick out his tongue at it, wherever it is coming from, is almost hilariously overwhelming.

"We'll see," he declares.

He remembers his weakness like a ghost weight on his shoulders, barely making it to the sun-drenched valley of the elves before his age finally caught up with him, but still managing to find at least some peace of mind - he sensed it approaching, back then, of course he did, the end like a whisper in his sleep, an echo in his heartbeat, growing louder by the day, and as he came to terms with his time growing shorter, so did he begin to get curious about what awaited him ahead.

The elves had songs about it, in a language he only understood bits and pieces of, and they even painted murals about it, light, always so much light, but none of that ever told Bilbo what would really be going on. Or more importantly, how to navigate it when it came. He'd charted countless maps in his lifetime, his immediate surroundings as well the places he'd traveled, mostly from memory, but these were going to be untrodden paths, and he needed to know what to expect.

He met the old elf in his favorite corner of the quietest garden, the entirety of the valley silent with expectation, his nephew and the others having left only a couple of days ago, and Bilbo needed some time to catch his breath - and still, his immediate reaction was to apologize to the hunched figure already occupying his absolute favorite bench, but he received only a smile in response, and the soft gaze of eyes shrouded by a pale, milky sheen. The blind elf had patted the stone next to him for Bilbo to join him, even offered a whiff of his pipe, which Bilbo politely refused - elven leaf tended to make him dizzy - and they sat in companionable silence for quite some time.

"When will you sail?" Bilbo had asked him, remembering the others discussing it earlier, and his unlikely companion's smile had only shifted the slightest bit.

"I do not think I will."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Those who would abandon these lands, never experienced the true wonders of them," the elf had answered, rather cryptically too, in Bilbo's opinion, but then his smile grew warmer, and, as if amused at the very carefree nature with which he would admit it, he added: "I loved a dwarf, once, believe it or not. And I would rather spend my days walking the earth he is buried under, than try and find my balance on a ship, you see."

It was then that Bilbo noticed the stranger was barefoot, ankles clad in soft silk and trinkets, _delicate_ long having given way to just _frail_ , and it had always been difficult to tell age on an elf, but Bilbo sensed the centuries upon centuries of who knows what experience softening the edges of that voice.

"Besides, I don't believe he would ever forgive me if I neglected to show up, after all that time he's spent waiting for me."

"Oh, he's - he's waiting for you, is he?"

_Thorin, wait, just wait, the eagles - they're coming, Thorin, look..._

"I should hope so," the elf chuckled, raising his head towards the sky, as if to soak up the last of the late afternoon sunlight, and Bilbo found himself wringing his hands in his lap, a sudden bitterness on his tongue, one he hadn't recalled in years, decades prior, and that time, it appeared more difficult to shake it.

"And how will you... If you don't mind me asking... How could you possibly know? How will you ever... find your way back to him?"

He recalls being unable to take his eyes off the elf for the longest time, suddenly longing for a reply, excited and terrified at the same time that he was never going to receive it, not entirely convinced that he wasn't dreaming, either, but then the stranger looked at him, really _at_ him it seemed, at least for a second.

"There is always a way," he'd answered, no matter how vaguely, "if you will it into being."

They sit in silence for some time, Bilbo mulling it over, before he dares ask.

"What was his name?"

The elf merely smiles.

_There is always a way._

It's less of a certainty, and more of a vague feeling, like the tingle on the back of his neck, but whoever has welcomed him here, also watches him as he sets out - walking has gotten him many places before, there is no reason why it shouldn't help him arrive at the very last destination he means to reach.

Although around here, it's less of a march, and more of a highly unlikely but somehow still effective fluent motion - he does put one foot in front of the other, he prides himself on being able to do that, oh yes, but sometimes, it looks like he hasn't moved an inch, and some other times, the scenery around him changes so abruptly, it's as if some invisible hand has yanked him forward through space.

 _The Shire,_ he thinks, concentrates with all his might on the image of it he carries in his mind, and the view stills.

"Hmm," he ponders with some satisfaction.

_Frogmorton._

The grass is tall enough to reach his waist, a fresh shade of green, almost the same as the leaves of the chestnut trees high up above, and he thinks he can hear horses approaching, but he is perfectly alone, even though he could swear he'll turn around and see a group of rowdy and loud dwarves forcing their ponies to a trot while singing about the road ahead...

But he is alone.

_Bree._

There is rain, he can see it drenching the cobblestone streets, but it doesn't affect him, he doesn't feel it on his skin, doesn't even hear it.

_Trollshaws._

The three trolls long since turned to stone are still there, overgrown and overpowered by vegetation now, and he thinks he can still see the markings of a long-extinguished bonfire.

 _You are allowed to wander for as long as you'd like,_ the presence reminds him, _but eventually, you will head home._

"That's the idea," Bilbo sighs.

He sees it in the distance now, again, even though he is sensibly nowhere near, the familiar shape of the oak above his smial, the green dot of the round door, and in some strange way, he even sees himself, sitting on the bench outside, smoke rings floating off beyond the hill. But home?

If his life has taught him anything, its summation so very clear to him now, like a mosaic assembled meticulously before his eyes, it's that _home_ ceased to be a place at a certain point. Of course, the welcoming green of his front door, the warmth of his hearth, even the scent of the aging wooden paneling of the uneven walls, all of that always spelled _safety,_ certainly, and _peace,_ but home...

Home was the blue of Frodo's eyes for the longest time, his voice in the mornings and his gentle nagging, with which he would always remind Bilbo of this or that social necessity or chore, but before that, there was a long period of time that Bilbo spent utterly and thoroughly alone. Completely by choice, too - there was not a lot to be said for finally finding his home in a _different_ pair of blue eyes, finally finding something, some _one,_ capable of plucking him out of the suffocating _comfort_ of his smial, and helping him discover a place to belong... Only to have all of that ripped away from him so very violently, and entirely too suddenly for him to even fully admit it to himself - that he _loved,_ at long last, with a passion that far superseded anything he'd ever felt before, and it was all that he ever needed, and that he was doomed never to be allowed to hold onto it.

 _That_ had been home, and Bilbo only ever realized it when it was slipping away from him, fading away almost as fast as all color drained from Thorin's face, and at that point, it was, indeed, too late.

At that point, all that there was left for Bilbo to do, was to turn East, and never stop until the grass was a familiar shade of green under his feet again, and the mountain was nothing but a distant memory far beyond the horizon.

 _Home is where the heart is,_ his people always said, but then to them, their heart was where their pantry and family was, while Bilbo's heart lay buried underneath miles of ancient stone, alongside the true heart of the mountain itself, both as miserable as the other. And try explaining that, whether it be out loud or in writing, to anyone who hadn't experienced the same. Bilbo never even attempted it.

But all of that, all his grief and his resulting indifference, like shackles unbroken for decades, is nothing but a memory without emotion now, like morning mist soon to disperse into nothingness, and Bilbo can see clear for the first time in what feels like several lifetimes, not one.

"Alright then," he decides, "time to go."

The world ceases to shift around him, like painting after beautiful painting presented in a quick blur, and he's under a great tree, its branches blotting out the sun and sky, its trunk so wide Bilbo can barely see past it... A low, almost threatening hum approaches from behind, but when he turns to see, it is just a very large bee, paying him no attention and circling the tree lazily, searching for blooms to visit, until it disappears in the waist-tall grass, in lanes around them.

The tree is an oak, and this is where it began, once upon a time.

Bilbo knows that if he were to turn a corner, he would see Beorn's hut, or at least the memory of it, but it is not what he searches for. He looks down, only to see his feet are incredibly dirty, little nicks and tears, even - of course, they ran here...

It's there, like a burst of green, beautifully round and larger than life, fitting in his hand perfectly.

"Hello there," Bilbo smiles at the acorn, "how about you show me the way?"

 _The only paths are those you create,_ the beautiful, but now slightly nagging, voice is there again, _but none can take you out of this realm of mine._

"Hmpfh," Bilbo comments, and pays it no mind.

It's easy enough to follow, as far as he's concerned - he happens by the acorns in the strangest places, halfway buried under rocks, lodged in between the dead branches of a fallen tree that is decidedly _not_ an oak, even floating down a brook so quick he almost misses it... But always there, always visible enough for Bilbo to notice them, some fresh and green just like the first one he found and carried all the way with him on his original journey, some aged and rich brown, like polished wood, some not even real acorns at all, but rather round and tarnished gold - the lost buttons of his vest, more than he ever even owned. Small and large, real or not, but all of them eager to lead him in a singular direction.

Even the low-hanging branches of the strange trees that grow in Mirkwood seem friendlier somehow, further apart, letting more light in, infinitely more than Bilbo recalls from the ordeal with the elven King and his nigh impenetrable prison... He thinks he catches a sight of them out of the corner of his eye every now and then, lithe and quick figures dashing in between shadows, but there is no reason for fear - he senses their curiosity, their desire to watch him, and when he says 'Hello there!' out loud, the nonexistent wind makes the leaves ruffle in what sounds like scattered giggling, and the beginnings of a simple melody.

Mirkwood is rotting and dying no longer, even in this realm, and he hurries alongside the rushing stream, recalling with some fondness now their daring escape, once upon a time, barrels rolling over rocks, almost drowning them all... But it worked, did it not?

It's like that, ever so easy, like there is no distance between him and his goal, like he's reliving his story effortlessly now, adamant on finishing it on a happier note - the mass of the forest is soon behind him, and below him, the glittering ribbon of the river gradually thins, until it enter the brilliant surface of the Long Lake, like a jewel on the horizon, and beyond it...

Clouded by fog, but still visible, the peak awaits him, and Bilbo feels the sudden urge to break into a run.

It doesn't take him days, or hours, or any time at all really, to get down there this time - he thinks it, and the lake spreads out before him, as far as the eye can see, Laketown to his right, restored to its modest glory now.

"I suppose it would be too much to ask for a boat?" he asks no one in particular.

_There is always a way._

The water is neither cold nor warm, feels like nothing at all in fact, translucent like glass - deep, deep below his feet, he sees the swirling and shifting shapes of plants and fish, the occasional larger shadow hinting at a sunken boat, and perhaps there should be fear, or at least caution, walking _above_ the water's surface, but he feels, if anything, an odd sort of excitement, a singular goal in mind, the mountain getting ever closer.

_Luckwearer._

It's like a whisper, except that it makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, and he looks around for the source of the strangely familiar voice, or the echo of it - until he realizes. Down at the bed of the lake lie the remnants of the dragon Smaug, white angles of bones shrouded by mud and kelp, and there simply is no way to regard the entirety of it. He recalls the deafening roar with which the beast fell, water turning into steam the second the larger-than-life body hit its surface, and the complete, suffocating silence that followed, and he remembers feeling... if not sorry for the downfall of the giant, then at least... pensive, in a way.

He thinks he can see individual scales, like glistening plates of gold, and what seems to be the shimmer of all the gems once forming the armor protecting Smaug's body - the sight keeps him company for quite a while, as the dragon's skeleton rests across almost the entire length of the lake, but before long, Bilbo's eyes are focused elsewhere.

The rooftops of Dale are a bright red now, the city restored and alive once again, and far beyond it, across a field that was once nothing but ash, but grows lush now with crops, glimmers the entrance to the mountain kingdom, repaired, majestic, lit with a hundred braziers, orange glow on dark stone beckoning him closer, beckoning him to enter.

He walks through the streets of the mountainside city and hears the _echo_ of people, of hurried footsteps and dozens of conversations at once, the laughter of children and the haggling of merchants, but there is no one in sight, not a single person or animal around, no birds to sing.

In the square where there once was nothing but the ruins of a fountain, a handful of arches that an army of elves planned their next steps under, stands a beautiful fountain, the trickling of water the only real sound, and above it towers the oak - the one Bilbo planted there once, in the midst of battle, declaring life more important than the endless suffering around them, declaring that if no one else believed in it, _he_ always would... Mere moments, it seems now, away from having any and all of those beliefs ripped from him like someone was aiming for his very heart.

Now, he stands before the memory of it, before its broad, healthy branches and fresh green leaves, glad to be somehow sapped of the clarity of his recollections - they are nothing more than footnotes at the bottom of the pages of his next book, faint plots of incomplete stories he might have heard from someone else at some point. Still, the goal remains.

 _That is not the mountain you seek,_ the voice notes - it always follows him, it seems, and where it sounded pleasant and comforting at first, Bilbo only feels a tinge of annoyance now, or doubt, perhaps.

“That’s alright,” he dismisses it, making his way down the paved road that leads up the mountain, connecting the city of Men to the kingdom of Dwarves.

_You may enter it, but you will not find what you are looking for there._

“Perhaps.”

 

It’s perfectly silent - the twin statues at the entrance welcome him mutely, towering over him, and beyond their passage, there is... nothing. Perfectly lit halls and broad stairways, shining marble and glittering touches of gold, and not a single dwarf in sight. Not that he really expected to run into someone, but still.

The deeper he goes, the more reluctant the mountain - or perhaps his unknown companion - is to let him pass. He sees the lights ahead, but they are blurred, only ever coming into focus and illuminating his way when he glares at them long enough. Same with the stairs, often sunken in darkness, the floor itself sometimes letting his foot pass through it before remembering to do its job - perhaps the journey would be quicker if he simply closed his eyes and _fell,_ but he senses that no, he is supposed to actually _take it._

It might just be his hearing deceiving him, but music is coming from down below, or more accurately, singing - he doesn’t need to concentrate very hard on _that_ to know what it is. He only heard it once, but a thousand deep, reverent dwarven voices joining in a dirge to mourn the passing of their royalty is something that tends to leave a lasting impression - an ancient, long-suppressed hurt finds its way back out and into his heart, and he stands still for just a moment, simply listening.

He never meant to go to the funeral, but he only ever realized when he was already there, deeper within the mountain than he’d ever ventured before, than he’d ever seen the dwarves venture, either - the air was cold, so very cold, and no matter how many candles and braziers and torches were lit, the light could never truly permeate the absolute darkness of the vast burial chamber, only faintly illuminate the podium in its center, and the tall statues bowing over it. Bilbo felt truly small then, forgotten among the crowd, and yet when he was invited onto that very podium alongside the rest of the company, he wished for nothing more than to disappear, slip his ring on and run away.

But he didn’t, and he was afforded one last sliver of time to look upon Thorin’s face, and ponder the profound unfairness of it all.

 

Standing here now, he feels that same cold, that same dull dread, that same feeling of all passion leaving his body - the three slabs before him are empty, and at last, he realizes that this, _all of this,_ has been empty all along. This mirror image of the world he was once _alive_ in, reconstructed from memories and wishful thinking, is nothing more than exactly that - a shell, a painting so masterful it appears real, but upon closer inspection, one can always see the individual brush strokes, the details that betray its true nature.

 _I told you,_ the voice is there again, softly apologetic now, and he rolls his eyes.

“You did. Fancy that.”

 _There is nothing for you here, petal child. Go back to where you belong, before..._   
“Before what?” he squints, but silence is his only answer.

Something is coming from deep down below, from the very heart of the mountain - a glow, like his eyes playing tricks on him, unaccustomed yet to the pitch black.

“Before what?!” he demands more forcefully now, and then he hears it, an echoing clang, metal hitting metal, like a hammer hitting an anvil.

_You never should have lingered. Go home!_

“I am home!”

It’s a deafening rattle now, like rusty chains and metal cogs moving again after centuries of inactivity, and he is reminded of the entire mountain coming alive when they hunted the dragon, old furnaces lit once more, long-unused machinery coming back to life with a new purpose. He comes dangerously close to the edge of the podium, and sees a rich glow deep down below, the deep, lively copper of a newly stoked fire.

_WHY DON’T YOU TELL THE CREATURE THE TRUTH?_

_This_ voice is coming... well, surely it must be the mountain itself speaking, there is no other explanation for it, for the rumble reverberating through his very bones, so all-encompassing it seems to be coming from everywhere around him.

“What truth?!” he calls out, a futile attempt to be heard.

 _The only truth is to be found where you belong!,_ the more familiar voice echoes, more soft-spoken, more elegant, than the new one, but no less powerful, _it is time for you to come to me!_

“There is no place I belong!” Bilbo protests, hands closing around the acorns in his pockets.

_BUT THERE REMAINS ONE PLACE FOR YOU TO GO._

The light is blinding, painfully so, the heat unbearable, and he stumbles backward, no sense of how close to the edge he is, yelping in shock as he trips and falls down... And then, silence.

When he opens his eyes - have they been closed, and for how long? - the grand chamber is illuminated, every stone, every sharp angle and every carving, visible in a pale glow, and before him, two figures facing off. They are more like the ideas of what a figure might look like, shadows attempting to coalesce into a recognizable form, shifting too quickly for the naked eye to comprehend, but if he were to attempt a description, he would name one taller than the other, one broad and stout and strong, twisting traces of moss green veins like the marble of the mountain itself, while the other is a more fleeting presence, like a flower in bloom for only a flicker of time, like tall grass in a brisk breeze... like the changing of seasons, and nature itself.

“Um,” Bilbo attempts to make his presence known.

 _You do not judge over my creations,_ one presence reminds the other, and the mountain rumbles, a faint crack of stone, reminiscent of a huff of laughter.

_IT DOES NOT SEEM TO ME THAT YOU CAN, EITHER._

_I let him roam._

_YOU LET HIM GET THIS FAR._

_Indeed, and now I shall stop him before he can go any further-_

_WHY?_

_Why? You know why. He cannot be allowed to cross over._

“Cross... over? I rather think I should first know what that means, before I make any sort of decision-”

_BUT HE HAS GOTTEN THIS FAR ON HIS OWN. HIS GOAL IS CLEAR._

_And my goal remains to keep balance! Can’t you sense it? He is too close!_

_I CAN SENSE IT,_ the deeper voice agrees, and it sounds almost pleased, _AND IT IS GLORIOUS._

“Excuse me!” Bilbo speaks up at last, somewhat proud of his voice wavering only the teensiest bit, “but what... what exactly are we arguing about here?”

It’s like some invisible fist closes around his chest, making his throat tight and his heart whine, as their concentration is on him - it’s almost too much, but then, all at once, it isn’t - they might as well be smiling at him.

_THE SOUL YOU SEEK RESIDES IN MY REALM-_

_And it is not a realm your kind is allowed to enter._

_BUT YOUR LIFE DID END WHILE PASSING IN BETWEEN YOUR WORLD AND THE ENDLESS LAND OF GREEN-_

_Which does not mean a thing, aside from more work for me to repair this imbalance._

_“_ Alright, well,” Bilbo clears his throat, “if _my_ word has any weight in this situation-”

_OF COURSE._

“Then I would very much like to - to find what I’m looking for! Who... I’m looking for. If it’s all the same to you. Thank you. That is.”

Is that... amusement he is being watched with right now? This all feels somewhat uncomfortable.

The softer shadow, the presence that has been with him ever since the beginning, approaches him, and all at once he smells the scent of cut grass and of the summer harvest, of roses in bloom and apple pies just out the oven - he smells _home,_ the place.

_You belong with me, petal child. None of your kind has ever abandoned my embrace. Do you not want to see all of them again? Your mother and father? Your nephew? I can take them to you right now._

He shuts his eyes tight, and senses the taunt, hears the faint echo of the tune his mother used to sing to him when he was little, smells the tobacco his father used to smoke. They had been the picture above his mantelpiece, nothing more, for so long, so very long, but...

“My parents died after a long and happy life. There are red poppies on my mother’s grave, and daffodils on my father’s, and they are side by side, even in death. Do I not deserve the same?”

The presence, the voice, the echo, regards him for so very long he thinks time might have stopped, while the other one lingers behind, waiting. Bilbo wants to speak to it, ask it, _do you know where he is?_ But he senses he should keep his mouth shut for now.

_You would leave everything you know behind, for one not of your kind?_

And Bilbo laughs, because the answer to that, he’s known for a while.

“I already did, once before. Best decision I ever made.”

 

Then, there is a different sort of light.

 

-

 

The stone stretches before him, as far as he can see - mountains and ravines, stairways and statues, beautiful marble and sturdy granite, colorful gems and glittering silver and gold. It is his home, his kingdom, and yet, something is missing. Like a dream he’s forgotten, a page missing in a book, he chases the sensation, the feeling of emptiness, but cannot describe it.

His ancestors welcome him with pride and joy, and he is where he is _supposed to be,_ surrounded by those who were always by his side in life, surrounded by family members he never even met, so why is it that loneliness finds him when he least expects it, but finds him nonetheless, always?

He finds the first one on the throne, just lying on the seat like it’s always been there - he picks it up, curiously turns it over in his fingers. Quite large, smooth, rich brown, it is unlike anything he’s seen since he came here - it is proof of life, so much warmer than the stone surrounding him.

He keeps it in his pocket, and looks for more.

 

The next one, he finds among a pile of jewels and gold - or at least the likeness of it. It’s a button, perfectly round, with the impression of an acorn meticulously embossed in it, miniscule dents detailing the cap, fine lines following the curves of the seed, and he inspects the craftsmanship for quite some time - his minds wants to convince him it means nothing, but when he closes his eyes, just for a second, he can see... something, a face, golden curls and a smile belonging to someone he’s forgotten, or never known, it’s difficult to say.

The button has no matching set, and still, he keeps it.

 

Rarely does he go outside the mountain, because there is nothing to see - nothing nice, anyway. The ground is scorched, doomed to remain infertile for good, and unlike most of his family, he finds no particular joy in climbing the mountain and gazing toward the horizon. What is there to see, really?

This time, he stands at the entrance, no one but the two stone guardians keeping him company, and he gazes not toward the horizon, but at the ground - a fine layer of ash covers it still, as if the dragon never left, as if its poison still corrupts everything around... Except, is that a flash of green?

He bends down, fingers dirtying with soot as he picks it up - a tiny, bright green acorn, probably fallen to the ground entirely too soon... Except that there is no tree.

He brushes it clean ever so carefully, and then another one catches his eye, a bit further off... And another one. Before he knows it, he is bending down every couple of steps to pick up a new acorn, each one larger and greener than the one before, and their strange line is leading him directly down the mountainside and toward the ruined city of men.

When first he steps foot between the hollow husks of buildings, he notices something is different - they are all destroyed, of course, caved in roofs and demolished pavements, but there is new life taking over it all, tufts of resilient grass sprouting from debris, ivy climbing up crushed walls... even a smattering of tiny white blossoms hiding in the shade here and there.

He walks dazedly, direction undetermined, until at last, he hears it - a trickle of water, the happiest sound he’s ever heard, and it spurs him into a jog.

Around a corner or two, there is a fountain, or what’s left of it, spouting water somewhat unevenly over what’s left of its structure, but trying incredibly hard nevertheless, and at once he understands it’s what’s given this city its second lease of life - water, as simple as that.

Grass grows almost as high as his waist here, and unless he’s gravely mistaken, he thinks he can hear the buzzing of insects...

He takes his hand out of his pocket, barely managing to cradle all the acorns at once, and looks from them to the fountain, to the ground below his feet - and it is actual _earth_ now, fresh, wet soil, _alive._

He knows not what compels him to do it, but he drops to his knees and digs a hole, not terribly deep, but a proper one nevertheless, and then drops an acorn in it, covering it back up ever so tenderly - and so on and so forth, until all acorns are in the ground, tiny mounds of fresh soil marking their location.

He dunks his hands in the little pond that the fountain has created, and as he watches the water wash away the dirt from his palms, he sees... recalls, glimpses of something else. Endless lanes of golden barley, hills of lush grass, orchards of trees weighed down by apples and peaches and plums... A place he has never been, or perhaps simply one he’s forgotten.

A round green door, and a rune of welcome shining a delicate, but no less brilliant blue on it.

 

He cups his hands together, and carefully gathers up some of the water to give to the seeds he’s just planted, and when he turns around, he ruins it all, the water soaking his boots instead.

Before him stands Bilbo Baggins, and there is no doubt about it, and all at once, he not only remembers, but suffers the horror of realizing he’d _forgotten,_ for _so very long._

He wears his red coat, and a scarf tucked into a mustard yellow vest, which is secured with... yes, round golden buttons with acorns on them.

“You,” he exhales, and Bilbo inclines his head, looking inquisitive.

“Indeed, me.”

“You’re... how long? How long have you been here?”

His smile broadens, and he takes a step closer, and then another one, and then another one.

“Oh, I believe I only just arrived.”

“But you... There was only stone.”

“Hmm. Yes, I saw. A terrible shame, really. But I see you have already started taking care of that.”

“I... huh?” he comments, somewhat distracted, as Bilbo reaches to take his hand, still damp from the fountain, and inspects it as if he has never seen it before - or, perhaps, judging by the tenderness in his eyes as he brings it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles ever so softly, as if he has waited a very long time to see it again.

“Thorin Oakenshield, elbows deep in fresh soil?” he laughs, and at last, Thorin recalls it all, like a flash of recollection, and knows, _knows_ in his heart of hearts that all the time he has spent here, wandering the halls of his kingdom, every song he has sung with his family, every time he has stood completely still, listening to the quiet hum of the mountain and hoping to hear _something_ else, something he was never quite able to name... All that time, he spent waiting for this. For him.

“And I thought I was supposed to be the one to plant the trees,” Bilbo notes, and at long last, Thorin Oakenshield remembers how to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This one was a delight to write, and yes, I might have spoiled it in the tags, but that was Yavanna and Mahal bickering about Bilbo's fate - I'm not a Tolkien scholar so idk about the accuracy (there probably is none) but it was a lot of fun. The elf Bilbo met in Rivendell is nameless, but feel free to speculate :D Hopefully you enjoyed it as well! You can always come chat with me at [my Tumblr](http://bilboo.tumblr.com)!


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